


Loser

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s second best and it <em>hurts.<em></em></em> He’s second best and everyone knows it and it hurts like hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loser

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning ******for self-harm and depression, and feelings of worthlessness. It's two in the morning here, so I apologize for typos. As always, feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think. Thanks and enjoy!

He’s second best and it _hurts._ He’s second best and everyone knows it and it hurts

like

hell.

Race after race and he just can’t _get there._ Lewis is always faster than him, always has a better start than him, always is able to pass him up, always has the engine that doesn’t fail. It’s always Lewis. Lewis on the podium, Lewis with the trophy, Lewis Lewis Lewis. And Nico feels like he can never be good enough, ever. Regardless. Period. End of story.

Nico sees the way they look at Lewis. The golden goose. The shining star. Track after track. Week after week. Nico feels like he’s going to explode. Like he’s going to go crazy. Like his failures are going to come alive and strangle him, and he’d deserve it, wouldn’t he? He’s pathetic, insignificant, a failure, unimportant. No one would notice, no one would care if he dropped dead on the floor right there.

It starts in some far-away city, after some race he’s lost, come in second to Lewis. Of course. The lights are off, he’s far too sober to deal with this, it’s far too late at night. The hotel room comes with knives this time. (Actually, it comes with an entire kitchen, and before, Nico would cook; before, Nico would love to cook. But he’s just so damn _tired_ all the time now. He doesn’t have the energy for that anymore.)

The hotel room comes with knives, and Nico can’t take the pressure-cooker feeling under his skin anymore, and they give him an idea.

Stainless steel and shiny; cold; heavy handles and light blades. He rests the metal easy and flat against his skin. There’s butterflies in his stomach, adrenaline and fear and _loathing_ in his veins. He can’t. Fucking. Take it.

It’s easy. Push. Pull. Pain.

Repeat.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There are four cuts on his arm now, horizontal, red. There’s blood on the knife, shiny and wet. There’s blood dripping onto the floor; loud tap tap tap. The only sound he can hear. Nico suddenly feels dizzy and he doesn’t remember when he stopped breathing.

The knife goes in the steel sink. Loud click clack thunk. Paper towel for the floor, pushed deep in the garbage. His arm held out far as it can go, rotated to slow the dripping blood. Over the sink again, blood tap tap tap onto the steel. Turn on the water but it’s too loud, too fast. Too bright a spot in his dark life.

Rinse the blood off the knife anyway, wash away the red evidence. Turn it off when you’re done, quick, back to the dead silence. He watches the red lines weep and scab, and cleans it with paper towel pushed deep into the garbage. He feels sick to his stomach, and goes to sleep miserable.

He doesn’t sleep.

 

 

It was Christmas a few days ago. It’s raining now, and there hasn’t been any snow yet this year. He’s German, so it feels weird. Christmas was everything it’s supposed to be: family, friends, a big dinner, smiles all around.

Now Christmas is over. Now the year is nearly done. Now Nico’s sitting alone in the room in the dark, brooding in the painful light of the lit Christmas tree.

The season ended a long time ago, same as before. Any pathetic attempts at skill he had to offer coming too late to ever matter. But it’s the end of the year now; it’s official now.

He rolls up his sleeve (he can’t wear t-shirts anymore). Four lines for each race, four lines for each failure. No lines for the Drivers Championship. Those lines were somewhere else – somewhere more painful and appropriate. The lines are white, some of them, pale lines crossing the skin. Some are raised; some are red; some are mere blemishes on his skin. Those he hates the most because they’re so hard to see.

This is what he made this year. This is what he produced. This is what he’s worth this year.

Does his pound of flesh still count if it’s in blood?

He picks up his right foot. Around his ankle, a perfect circle. Somewhere no one would see it. Somewhere excruciating to cut. Carved twice. Cut into flesh the day Lewis won (again). Truer words were never put down.

L   O   S   E   R

Loser.

English, not German. English is _his_ language. English is Nico’s third. Forever scarred, forever branded. Everyone will know exactly what he is.

Weak.

Failure.

Not fast good skilled enough.

Loser.

Nico sits in the dark, lit in the colored lights of the Christmas tree, feeling the letters over and over. Running his thumb over them again and again. He can feel the truth in the word, blatant and obvious.

Nico feels like he needs to cry, but there are no tears for the losers.


End file.
